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Jazz at the End of the Night

Jazz at the End of the Night is a collection of short stories crawling from the caverns of hopelessness. The characters share in their hard times cursing the universe and losing everything that mattered to them. Each story throws the reader into a harsh reality of life changes, betrayal, and sometimes madness. Follow Derrick, returning from We Live for Half-Moons, still trying to find order in love yet only finding a crater of suffering as he explores life with a hot young thing he picked up at a gas station. Rick worked hard to keep him and his partner afloat. When he loses his job, he loses his whole life in an instant. Forced to sleep on the streets after his partner disappeared, he dreams of finding his love, hopefully alive. Izzy falls into a crippling depression as the bills pile and the collectors spam his phone. When his husband leaves him after frustration, the weasel lets go of everything in his life and takes off on the road, searching for happiness. Jazz at the End of the Night is a collection of hollow bridges, and it's not easy to find the pieces to fix them.

Weasel’s Jazz at the End of the Night is a fine collection of dark, erotic anthropological stories unearthing the inner core of human sexuality, desires and fears. There is an “everyman” quality to each protagonist in these tales. A man trying to get through the end of the day with money in his pocket, a full belly, a slight buzz from a decent beer and maybe, just maybe, love even if from a stranger. Unfortunately, life beats down on every man and Weasel’s characters face the harshness that living without light brings. This is a well-crafted collection from a very exciting young author.

—David E. Cowen. Author of The Madness of Empty Spaces and The Seven Yards of Sorrow; Editor HWA Horror Poetry Showcase Volumes III (2016) and IV (2017)

Jazz at the End of Night shadows its characters with flickers of anguished lament and enlightened suffering — told with a dark warmth ascending from the seamy craters first spawned in We Live for Half-Moons. Here are ten stories of despair in love, release in hopelessness, and melancholy abandonment.

—Gary Mielo, author of Purple Fantasies, and 74th Street Stories

Anthropomorphic literature is a pedigree hound, trained by Kafka, London, Orwell and H.G Wells to name a few careful owners, Jazz at the End of the Night is a toothsome furry beast, offering light, color and bite on the struggles, joys and complexities of the human experience through a cracked and furry kaleidoscope...howl on.

—Neil S. Reddy, author of Miffed and Peeved in the U.K. and Taxi Sam in PINK NOIR

We Don't Make It Out Alive

Weasel is a warrior poet on a truth rampage, and I pity any censor who'd dare stand in his way. Bleak and brilliant, vulnerable and forceful, this new collection does not disappoint. Indeed, the pen is mightier than the sword, and he's kept his quill sharp, dipped in fresh blood and battle-ready. With passion and precision, Weasel's forthright words puncture the consciousness with vital and valuable insight into the human condition.


-Brian Kehinde, author of Amethyst Fantasy Volumes 1 and 2.


Weasel's "we don't make it out alive" is the kind of art that will haunt you for a long time with its astronomical depth and resilience; but mostly by its sublime and triumphant isolation. Have you ever wondered how it may feel to be hated, cornered and threatened for what frequency of the spectrum your skin radiates/absorbs, for what and whom you love and, and which tribe you belong to? Forget the construct of geographical fictions called country, and the selfie-aesthetics of democratic ideology enamored of its own "pecker's size"; how it may work on your psyche when your own father doesn't count you as a people because of your own private conventions? Weakened, devastated? The answer is "Fuck no!" from "we don't make it out alive," which riles and revels on the innate sacredness of your unadulterated and defiant individuality.


The poems here not only make you flinch your teeth and scream in anger, they also make tunnel of aches through your spleen and guts. When the poet says "only faggots cry, and mama didn't raise no faggot," or "i wonder if god ever had problems with his son like normal folks do," you feel nothing but the deepest gratitude and respect for the author of this tremendous dynamite called "we don't make it out alive."


If you want to have a peek at the contemporary "political economy of hate" in America, and a beat attitude to survive it, "we don't make it out alive" is something you can't miss out.


- Adhikari Sudeep, Author of The Art of Changing Nothing to Punk Gigs & Zen of Tripping Zeroes; Kathmandu, Nepal

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